Outtakes for A Song from ficpromptly
by Pace is the trick
Summary: A series of related drabbles from Dreamwidth's fic promptly for A Song (for Him). Non-canon, no slash. Aro and Carlisle in the early centuries.


**Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil**

All that is gold does not glitter. The rock Carlisle is scrutinizing is as common as common can be, a natural peak of a mountain range, a narrow plateau of a steep hill. Its ancient surface bears some telltale signs of human activity but all in all it is no different from any other slab in the area.

Except that this one is encircled thrice – outside with a massive fortress wall built of stones some two-and-a-half meters thick and twelve meters high; then again, closer, with an octagonal arcade of equal exterior strength and unrivaled interior majesty; yet again with trellis adornment around the boulder itself.

This is no ordinary crag. This unremarkable summit has been the subject of some of the bloodiest battles fought by man and still is a fiercely contested site. Many more will perish before all is said and done for this bedrock is the foundation of faith for more than half the world. It is the site where sits the Divine Presence, where first He brought forth humankind, where He made His Covenant with Man.

It is of course Mount Moriah, _Har habayit_, currently housed under Abd al-Malik's Dome. And whatever it lacks in style it makes up for in legend. It is the Holy of Holies, the Garden of Eden, the sacrificial alter of Isaac.

"The Farthest Mosque from which Mohammed made his miraculous Night Journey," Aro interjects.

Carlisle ignores him, thinking of its profound significance for his people. In the time of Christ, it was accessible only to the high priests. They alone communicated with God. In the year Our Lord 1721, it is still off-limits to many. But this matters no more. Jesus Christ broke down the barriers and brought God to man. He continues in the line of thought and Aro keeps up with a periodic languid brush of his hand against the other man's backside.

Vampires, of course, have no trouble with accessibility. To sites, that is. (Aro thinks God is a question best left to Carlisle and his kind.) They simply climbed up from the Well of Souls (Crusaders had helpfully hacked an entrance to the cave from the south in earlier times). Aro's been here many times before, even seen its former house, Herod's Temple. But even after so many visits he is still suitably pleased by the beauty. He loves aesthetic experiences and never tires of the emotions evoked by this one: the intricate patterns on the gold ceiling, the gleaming white marble arches veined in shades of grey, the filigree overlays of crimson and blue. It is almost too much for the human eye, this dazzling display of ornate images. But for the vampire of keen mind and vision, it has the complexity to demand attention. Raptly his sight roves the panorama before falling to rest first on one detail than another. Always it makes him pause. Do they understand what they have done, these mere mortals? Do they know that they have captured the sensuality of Eden and sanctity of Heaven in this one place? Jewels and trees and fruits and flowers and crowns. Yes, Aro admires the work of the human hand. It is part of what makes eternity so enticing.

Not all those who wander are lost. Carlisle may be searching for absolute truth but Aro is simply passing time in a thoroughly enjoyable way. The artwork is pretty but watching the young vampire come to terms with the reality of what he truly is is exquisite. He's done it before, watched men grapple with identity, but never like this. The Englishmen is a unique specimen, determined to claw his skin away, rid himself of impulse, sanctify his mind, sacrifice his body. So very much like the other one so long ago. Aro's eyes glitter, blood red on deepest black in startling contrast to the walls around him.

Carlisle is still examining the rock. There are declivities here and there. What looks to be deliberate. They might be something of profound importance for the faithful. Proof. His eyes aren't yet wise enough to be able to read the surface the way his mentor can.

"Are they knife marks?" he asks Aro.

Finished with the wonders of the human hand, Aro has commenced an examination of his own - truly a fine specimen! Neither too narrow nor too wide, it is perfection, the chiseled rendition of a Greek or Roman god immortalized in stone, white marble without grey blemish tapering to elegant symmetrical fingers. If it was the 21st century, we'd say it was an air-brushed shot of a hand model and probably Aro is thinking ahead to the time when all of mankind will be able to admire its loveliness. He hates keeping it hidden away from the light of day. How prettily it shimmers in the sunlight!

"Hmmm?" He glances up at Carlisle's bowed head. 'Knife' suggests a sloppy choppiness very out of character with the precision of his hand. He glances up at the inexatitudes on the ceiling, prominent now by comparison. Interesting. "Probably," he answers.

"Or-" Carlisle is really talking to himself. These questions posed aloud are simple politeness after years of solitude. It's nice having a companion, even if they disagree on practically everything, and he makes it a point to include the other in his musings even if he needn't bother. The hand on the back of his thigh reminds him of such. "It's almost as if it were used for something else. See these lines?"

If Aro had lived at the beginning of time he'd be able to answer but this way is so much more enjoyable. He finds the other's searching vastly entertaining after centuries of _enterrement_. Still, how he longs to provoke him! How he wishes he could rush the climax and tell him all!

But not now. Not yet. The moment will come soon enough.

He's lived long enough to know when the time to strike is at hand.


End file.
